


The Solo Job

by DesertPersephone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Fantasy, this is just napoleon being sad and jerking off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertPersephone/pseuds/DesertPersephone
Summary: Greenwich. A new location, a new job, a new pool of people he should be taking to bed.And yet, Napoleon Solo has been returning home... well solo, lately.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 10
Kudos: 121





	The Solo Job

**Author's Note:**

> what else is there to say except that i wrote this just so i could talk about Solo's dick honestly. also it was not supposed to be so angsty but whoops.

Napoleon Solo had many vices. Some might even call them addictions. Some, like those shrinks he was required to meet with, might even classify him as having a control disorder. Oh, he had seen his own files, he had seen the words “Gambler – Backgammon” and “Serial Womanizer” stamped out in black, unforgiving ink.

“Serial Womanizer”

_If only they knew…_

It was a surprise they hadn’t thrown “Kleptomaniac” in.

…. Huh …. Maybe he was an addict.

But as long as he could do his job, as long as he was smart and clever and there for his partners, did it really matter that his nightly routine contained whiskey, a bet or two when it could be found (or a light fingered lift when it could not), and some kind of warm body? Napoleon didn’t think so. As long as it helped him sleep, where was the harm?

But tonight, he had not found anyone to pique his interest during the two old-fashioneds he nursed at the bar. This was becoming a recurring problem. Since they had moved into the brownstone in Greenwich Village, Napoleon had found himself returning to his bed with seemingly fewer notches on his belt. And it had little to do with the surrounding bars catering to primarily homosexuals. In fact, what should have been a wonderful bonus to his excursions. The nights he stepped out and left Illya at the chessboard and Gaby at the radio to find a willing playmate, Napoleon Solo wasn’t always in search of a woman to take him to bed.

But that was strictly need-to-know, top secret, locked away and never to be spoken off unless someone he was sure wasn’t law enforcement brought it up. Napoleon could _not_ have the agency discovering anything else about his sexual proclivities.

Not that he was having much sex anyway.

Draining his glass, he set it on the counter and doled out a couple dollars before sliding off the bar stool. He ran the palm of his hand over his hair, neatly combed and gelled as always, his naturally unruly curls neatly straightened into place, and adjusted his waistcoat as he headed for the door, disappointment heavy on his shoulders. There had been a couple men who had caught his eye and a woman who had flashed him her garter, but all of them were –

Well…

Too much not Gaby and Illya.

Napoleon sighed, lips pursed as he raised a hand and hailed a cab.

He had tried not to focus on the festering attraction he had for the people he worked to closest with, it was stupid for one, they were his _partners,_ his _co-workers._ And yet… they were always set up in shared living situations and he had become accustomed to the stability of their presence. He was now dreadfully familiar with bidding Gaby a goodnight from the hall as he rolled in far too late, knowing she would be awake and alert for many more hours to come. And he had become familiar with being the first one up to cook breakfast, committing to memory that Illya liked a six-minute boiled egg and that Gaby preferred her bacon almost black. More then that though, was the hours they spent waiting, Napoleon achingly familiar with the sound of Illya turning a page in his book (mostly poetry or history) and the gentle ping of screws hitting a metal bowl as Gaby took apart some new appliance just to put it back together again. He was familiar with her footsteps on the hardwood, with Illya’s heavy snoring from the next room over. He knew their breathing and the tilt of a mouth or an eyebrow, the gentle, friendly press of a small hand to his during surveillance, or the not so gentle, but still (mostly) friendly press of a fist to his ribcage during sparring.

He had become altogether too familiar with all of it, with them, with how they made him feel at home.

Thanking the driver and handing over his fare, Napoleon climbed out in front of the brownstone. He took a moment too stare before heading up the steps and inside. The ground floor was quiet and empty, and as he made his way upstairs, he flicked off the lamp they had left on for him. The landing was just as quiet. Illya’s door was shut, but Gaby’s was cracked, letting a chink of light out into the hall. Stepping up to it, Napoleon reached out to tap on the door, say goodnight, when he saw them.

Gaby had fallen asleep with the light on, and her small, perfect body was curled up against the long, flawless stretch of Illya’s. The lamp bathed them in golden light, his stupidly long arms bent to cradle her against his chest, her knees folded and tucked above his. Gaby’s fingers were threaded through Illya’s honey soft hair and her forehead was nearly against his hairy chest. They were asleep on top of the blankets, both in their pajamas and both so utterly content that it made Napoleon’s heart burst with aching.

Oh, he had been so caught up in his own lust (love?) for the two of them that he had failed to see that their lingering touches and glances seemed to have turned into something much more. Something that he wished he could be a part of. He wished he could be curled on Illya’s other side, or between them, sharing that warmth and that comfort that he so usually chased after with a stranger.

How much different it would be to fuck – no, to make love to someone he knew? Someone, someones, who he cared for, who cared for him.

Napoleon swallowed thickly and hooked a couple fingers around the doorknob, silently pulling it shut before he made the long journey across the landing to his room. His room. It used to feel so, comfortable, so safe, Illya just on the other side of the wall, the two of them snarking over who got to shower first while Gaby ducked in under their noses… He swallowed again, teeth gritting as he undressed, methodical and precise, hanging up his suit and grabbing the robe from the back of the door barely tying it shut around his waist as he left his room and slipped into the communal lavatory.

It was clean and organized, because he liked it that way, save for the squished toothpaste tube on the sink. Gaby. She was far less tidy then he was, or even then Illya was, and Napoleon had never brought himself to mind too much, it had always been a little cute, another little thing he was used to and familiar with. Like Illya’s razor and nondescript, unscented, utilitarian bar of soap melting away next to Napoleon’s own woody, clove scented bar.

If anything, at least the water ran hot and fast out of the shower head, at least it gave him a reason for the drowning sensation in his chest. Napoleon scrubbed at his armpits, at his neck, his hair, his groin, anywhere to try and sluice off the bitter jealousy clinging too him. Why wasn’t he good enough to have those long arms wrapped around him? Or to have that petite body curled again his chest?

His foot almost slipped as he climbed from the shower, and Napoleon grabbed the edge of the tub to catch himself. The image of Illya and Gaby was still seared into his eyelids and it was making him dangerously unobservant, he thought as he grabbed his towel and scrubbed himself dry before returning to his room. The light in Gaby’s had turned off, but he doubted that Illya was in his own bed. Bitterness and longing rose up in his throat again and he fucking wished he had gone home with someone. He wished he had someone to lay next to, to take his mind off of his partners. He wished he had gone home with someone and hadn’t seen what he had seen.

Towel dropped, rumpled on the rug, robe tossed over the desk chair, Napoleon couldn’t even bring himself to find a new pair of boxers as he crawled into his bed. He very much wanted to just shut his eyes and drift off and not have to _think,_ to _overanalyze,_ for the next six hours.

But that seemed like a fantasy.

Images kept appearing in his mind; Illya’s long legs. Gaby’s soft mouth. Illya’s strong arms and long fingers curled gently against skin, Napoleon’s skin, Gaby’s gorgeous tits pressed to a chest, Napoleon’s chest, her thighs against his thighs, Illya’s hips against his hips, shared breathes, shared moans, shared body heat, shared pleasure. Illya’s cock. Gaby’s pussy.

Napoleon groaned and rolled over onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face before peering through his fingers. He was half hard, cock just starting to tent the sheets, the thick arch of his shaft visible between his legs.

“Fuck…” He whispered, cheeks filling with color. He was almost ashamed, almost ready to throw himself off the roof with how silly his crush was becoming. But instead, instead he pushed the sheet back, chill springtime air making his chest prickle with goosebumps, the tiny droplets of water behind his ear cooling rapidly as he swallowed, head falling back against the pillows when he wrapped a hand around the very base of his cock.

Napoleon took a deep, steadying breath and released it slowly as he gave himself a few steady pulls, the friction making his cock jump to attention, ready and flushed, filling quickly. He had a thick cock, wide like his body, but not terribly long, the rosy head resting just outside his closed fist when gripped it. He had been circumcised as an infant, in some attempt to keep him clean and prevent “self-abuse”. The latter had obviously not worked. If anything, Napoleon would hazard a guess that he practiced “self-abuse” more regularly than men who were intact.

But perhaps that was just his “control disorder” talking.

He ran a hand from the hair on his chest, gently teasing at one of his nipples on his way, pinching the bud between two calloused fingers before his hand followed the trail of hair down, across his flat stomach, to the thick, bush of hair at his groin and lower to cup his testicles. Napoleon let out a tiny little moan as he rolled his sac in his hand, eyes shut while his other hand caressing the skin on his torso. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he could pretend that his fingers were Illya’s or Gaby’s (never mind that they were too short and too wide to be Illya and his palm too big to be Gaby’s).

His hand came back up to give himself another stroke before Napoleon rolled to the side, reaching over to pull open the drawer on his nightstand. There was a moment of blind searching, fingers grazing along the bottom, knuckles bumping the box of condoms, before finally finding the glass jar of Vaseline and lifting it out. The screw cap was easy enough to remove, if a little slick from residue jelly in the jar, and he set the open jar and its cap on the nightstand before gently dipping his fingers inside to collect some of its contents. Rubbing his fingers together to spread the jelly over them, Napoleon let out a content groan as he wrapped his hand around himself again. There was still a tiny bit of friction on the next stroke, but mostly his hand slipped along his cock, squeezing gently at his head, a tiny bead of pre leaking out. His cock slapped up against his stomach when he let it go, tip kissing the hair trailing from his belly bottom as he reached down with his clean hand to rub his balls again. Napoleon grazed the underside of his cock with a gentle caress of his fingers, thumb rubbing the flare of his glands and he moaned again, cupping his sac and spreading his legs, knees bending slightly.

His eyes had shut again, focusing on the coiling pleasure in his gut, unashamedly picturing Illya’s hand on his cock, squeezing the base on every stroke and massaging his over sensitive head while Gaby pressed kisses to his chest, to his tits, his nipples, his jaw, biting the flesh of his chin, his own hand rubbing over his thick thigh like she might.

Napoleon groaned and his hand quickened, hips pushing up into the tight grip of himself, fucking his fist. He wished he could feel the slap of skin against his hipbones, warm flesh and muscles and he whined a little and grit his jaw as his cock twitched in his hand, encouraging the thought of Gaby on top of him and Illya behind him, of big Russian hands on his hips and tiny German hands on his chest, of letting them use him, pressing him between them, almost like they were fucking each other through him.

“Ah! Fuck.” Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut, lips parting as his hips lurched up and his cock jerked hard with his orgasm, sending cum spilling over his stomach and chest. His balls were tight against him and his asshole pulsed around absolutely nothing as he came, his breathing stopping for a moment before he heaved a gasp and flopped against the bed, hand still wrapped around his cock. Taking a few moments to find himself again, Napoleon rubbed a hand over his thigh, giving his softening cock another couple strokes before he sat up. He blinked past the afterglow of his orgasm, trying not to think too much about how he had just jerked himself to the thought of his friends, his partners.

Searching for the towel, Napoleon wiped himself clean before folding it and setting it in the hamper. When he returned to bed, sleep came quickly at the heels of his orgasm, letting him rest until the buzz of his alarm clock roused him in the morning.

Climbing from his bed and pulling on the soft, silk pajama pants up to settle low on his hips, Napoleon ventured out onto the landing. Gaby’s door was open, and the room was empty, but the sound of the shower was loud behind that shut door and Napoleon tried to ignore any and all invading thoughts as he dashed down to the basement level of their brownstone. It seemed easier to think with a floor separating him and his partners, his head clearing as the burner on the stove clicked to life and he set the kettle on to boil water for coffee.

He had a morning routine, just like he had a night routine, and it brought structure to his sometimes extremely chaotic day.

_Hot water, coffee grounds, and the slide of the plunger in the French press._

_A fresh pan, two slices of bacon for each of them, and the sizzle of the fat._

_The bread twist forgotten on the counter, two slices in the toaster, and the push of the lever._

“Solo.”

_A pot, the rush of water from the faucet, and the gentle clink of it on the burner._

“Cowboy.”

He turned, finally, having been too caught up in his own thoughts to see Illya and Gaby in the door to the kitchen. They both looked freshly showered and it just felt like the knife in his gut was twisting as he forced a smile.

“Coffee is ready.” He said, gesturing to the French press. Before he turned back to the bacon, he saw they share a look and he wished he hadn’t followed his routine for once.

“We want to talk to you.” Gaby said as she crossed the floor and set a light hand on his arm. There was a scrap of chair legs cross the hardwood. Illya had sat at the table and Napoleon let Gaby lead him to a chair as well, sitting rather stiffly as she perched herself on the table.

“Last night – “

“I know.” He said, cutting her off, eyes darting away from them to look out the window over the garden. “If you want to… request a new partner, or… leave the team, I guess I understand.”

“What?” Gaby’s eyes had gone a little wide and Illya gave a shake of his head.

“No.” he said firmly.

“No, Solo, we don’t want you to leave…”

“We want you to… join us…”

It took a moment to register what exactly was happening to him and Napoleon’s eyes snapped back to them, staring, trying to find cracks in their façade. Was this a trick? A lie? A scheme to catch him? A damn sting operation to entrap him and make him admit that he slept with men?

His eyes had widened slightly, and his teeth dug into his upper lip as his gaze flicked between them. He knew their tells by now, and he trusted them, but they were spies just like him and –

And what? If Waverly approached _him_ run some sort of job on his partners like this, he would never agree, their trust was far more important then who they fucked. And hopefully they felt the same about him…

“Are you – really? You want me to…”

“To sleep with us, yes.” Illya nodded, lips pouting a little in a very Russian expression. “And to – how did you say it last night?” he looked up at Gaby.

“To be partners. In a different sense of the word.”

Napoleon smiled slowly, that half grin, his teeth dragging over his bottom lip before he leaned forward, toward the pair, heart soaring at the implications. Partners. _Lovers._

“I would be, absolutely, delighted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
